


In the Wake of Loss

by luxover



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leo opens the door and Cristiano is standing there, leaning against the doorjamb like he does it all the time, like it’s normal for him to just swing by. Leo’s confused; he doesn’t even know Cristiano, not really, not in the ways that count, and certainly not enough for them to hang out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Wake of Loss

It starts after El Clásico. Leo’s in a good mood—a great mood—because Barcelona didn’t just beat Real Madrid, they _demolished_ Real Madrid. Barça put on a show, Leo knows. Barça proved that they are still the best, that they still have it, that they can still wipe the floors with Real Madrid. The thought makes something flare up in Leo’s chest, something that he knows he can’t put a name to, and so he doesn’t even try.

Leo gets home late, real late, because they were all celebrating, grins splitting their faces in half as they stood on the pitch, Gerard’s five fingers spread wide in the air and Pep’s face—Pep’s _face_ —open and proud as he walked down the tunnel and Leo had wanted to follow, had wanted to say, “We’ve still got it, Pep,” or maybe, “We did it, Pep,” or maybe even just, “ _Pep_ ,” Leo doesn’t know, but he does know that his place is on the pitch and so he stayed there, bumped shoulders with Gerard and threw himself onto Sergio’s back and they jumped and chanted, and he stayed there until he eventually fell off, and even then he refused to leave the pitch until he knew that he’d still be seeing the scoreboard when he closed his eyes, until he knew that he’d never forget how Puyi looked pumping his fist in the air or how David looked with his arm around Keita’s neck or how Pedro looked with his eyes open as he laughed.

But it’s been a long day, and Leo’s tired when he gets home. He changes into an old, worn-out pair of Barcelona sweatpants that he shouldn’t even have anymore because he’s not number nineteen anymore, but there’s still life in them and Leo can’t bring himself to throw them away. He spreads himself out on the couch and watches highlights of the match, again and again, and just as he thinks he can’t keep his eyes open any longer, just as he’s about to shut the tv off, his doorbell rings.

Leo opens the door and Cristiano is standing there, leaning against the doorjamb like he does it all the time, like it’s normal for him to just swing by. Leo’s confused; he doesn’t even know Cristiano, not really, not in the ways that count, and certainly not enough for them to hang out.

“Hi,” Leo says, because nothing else comes to him. In the background, some commentator is yelling, _For the second time in as many minutes, it’s David Villa with the goal! And what a goal!_

Cristiano must hear it, too, because he says, “I guess the Ballon d'Or means less and less these days.”

“I had two assists,” Leo says, because he’s tired enough to let himself and because Cristiano started it. “How many did you have?”

“The same number as you had goals,” Crisitano snaps back, and Leo gets it, knows how it is. Losing is hard to deal with, especially for people like them. He thinks back to the Hercules match and the thought still makes him mad and embarrassed, and that wasn’t a big rivalry, wasn’t anything more than a nothing match that ended in an upset.

“You want to come in?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Cristiano says. “Yes. But turn that shit off.”

“Okay,” Leo says, and once they’re inside, he does. He was going to anyways, so it’s not a big deal. “Why are you here?”

“I’m not letting you be Pichichi,” Cristiano says, ignoring Leo’s question, and he throws himself on the couch.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Leo says. “Doesn’t mean I’m not going to take the title anyways.” He sits down in an armchair a few feet away and it’s weird that he’s sitting here like this with Cristiano, talking with him like they were old teammates in a game of one-upmanship. It’s unusual for Leo to be so blunt about his talent, but it’s no secret that he works hard to be the best and that the best score goals.

“That’s what I’m trying to say,” Crisitano tells him. The words sound lazy coming out of his mouth, and his feet are propped up on the coffee table. “I’m going to take the trophy and hold it above my head so it’s out of your reach.”

And that—everything in Leo stills for a moment at that, but then Cristiano is smiling and it makes him look friendly, all those white, white teeth, and Leo lets out a bark of surprised laughter. Cristiano laughs too, but a lot softer and only after Leo laughs first. For a second, Leo looks at him and the way his hair is gelled and how his shirt stretches across his chest, and he feels incredibly underdressed in his own home. But then Cristiano leans his head back against the couch and light catches on the diamonds in his ears and the moment passes.

“Do you want something to drink?” Leo asks. He realizes that he probably should have started with that, right when he invited Cristiano in, but it doesn’t matter.

“No,” Cristiano says. “I’m good.”

Leo gets up to get himself some water anyways, to give his hands something to do. He opens the cabinets and grabs a glass, and he’s not even thirsty, so he doesn’t get why he’s doing this. He’s not nervous—Cristiano doesn’t make him _nervous_ —but he is feeling a bit unsettled and he doesn’t like that.

And then all of a sudden, Cristiano’s right behind him, crowding him into the counter. Leo turns around and Cristiano’s right there, not on top of him but still too close for comfort, and there’s something in his eyes and the set of his shoulders that Leo hates, probably because he understands it, because he sees and hates it in himself, too.

“Shouldn’t you be in Madrid?” Leo asks, and Cristiano shrugs. Leo can see him run his tongue over the front of his teeth behind his closed lips.

“Probably.”

“I should kick you out of my house,” he says, and he means it.

“Why?” Cristiano asks. “I’d be gloating if I were you.”

“You pushed Pep,” Leo explains, because that’s how it is, how Barcelona is. He’d been real mad when he saw it happen, and then Victor had run out from between the posts and Leo was _right there_ , but that wasn’t where he was needed, wasn’t where Barcelona needed him to be, and so he even though he wanted to fight, he walked away. He could hear David, though, pointing in Cristiano’s face as he said, _You need to grow the fuck up,_ and he could hear Victor hollering, _Hey hijo de puta, come try that shit over here_. And Pep had just stood there watching his team—because that’s what they are, they’re _Pep’s_ team—with his hands in his pockets as Leo talked to the ref and as the rest of the team fought with _Los Blancos_ , defending Pep to the end because _Madridistas_ don’t get to lay a finger on Pep. Leo had wanted to say that, too— to say, _You don’t get to touch Pep because Pep is ours_ , but that wasn’t the right time and Leo figures that maybe the right time doesn’t even exist.

“He wouldn’t give me the ball,” Cristiano says, shrugging again. “He’s lucky I didn’t push him by the face, like Sergio did to Puyol.”

And that’s strange, hearing Ramos being called Sergio, because Sergio is Busquets, Sergio is _blaugrana_. Sergio is not Ramos, not some hot-headed player who consistently lets anger get the better of him in matches.

He doesn’t say any of that, though, and instead says, “Great second captain you’ve got there.”

Cristiano smiles and waves his hand. He’s still close enough that he almost hits Leo. Leo wants to say something but doesn’t, because if close proximity doesn’t bother Cristiano, he’s not going to let it bother him, either.

“He just complains a lot on the pitch,” Cristiano says. “Never off it, but on the pitch there’s always something for him to whine about.” He says it the way someone would say, _He’s a great player,_ or, _He was born with a football at his feet_. Leo figures Cristiano probably does mean it as a compliment, given how much he whines on the pitch himself. “You don’t complain on the pitch much,” Cristiano continues, and that’s a compliment, too.

And then he leans forward and kisses Leo on the mouth, soft but sure, and Leo is taken by surprise. But this is Cristiano— Cristiano _Ronaldo_ , one of the best players in the _world_ —and so Leo kisses back. There’s a lot of tongue and barely any teeth, and Cristiano brackets his hands around Leo’s hips and pulls him closer, the tips of his fingers pressing into Leo’s skin as his thumbs slip up underneath Leo’s shirt.

Cristiano’s hands are cold despite having been inside for a while and it almost makes Leo shiver. Instead, he winds his fists into Cristiano’s shirt and grinds their hips together. He likes the sound that Cristiano makes.

“Fuck,” Cristiano says. “Get this—” and then he’s sliding his hands up Leo’s sides, pulling Leo’s shirt up with them. When his shirt is off, Cristiano tosses it aside and runs a thumb over one of Leo’s nipples, back and forth.

“Come on,” Leo says. “You too.” His fingers scramble to get rid of Cristiano’s shirt, but he guesses they don’t scramble fast enough because Cristiano takes a step back and takes it off himself. Leo watches the way his chest undulates with the movement.

“Bedroom?” Cristiano asks, and Leo points down the hallway and lets Cristiano lead him there with two fingers looped through the elastic of his sweatpants.

When they get there, Cristiano pushes him down on the bed and then is incredibly gentle with him. It surprises Leo. He had expected something hard and rough, fast just so that Cristiano gets off in the wake of such a hard loss. Instead, he kisses his way down Leo’s chest, fingers fluttering over Leo’s skin, and tugs down Leo’s pants, gets them both naked. And then he sits there for a minute, in between Leo’s legs, and just looks at Leo’s face as he runs his palms up and down Leo’s thighs.

“What?” Leo asks.

Cristiano shakes his head and says, “Nothing.”

“Okay,” he says. He doesn’t think it’s nothing, but there’s not much else he can say. And when Cristiano wraps his fingers around Leo’s cock, there’s not much else he can think, either.

Cristiano jerks him off at first, slow and steady, and it drives Leo wild. His hips buck up into Cristiano’s hand and it should be embarrassing, to be seen like that in front of _Cristiano Ronaldo,_ but it’s just not the same anymore and Leo’s just desperate to get off, to touch him.

“Come on,” he says, only it comes out ragged and Cristiano laughs a little. And then as if to prove some point, Cristiano leans forward and takes Leo in his mouth. It’s sloppy and there’s a lot of spit everywhere, but Cristiano looks sexier than anything Leo’s ever seen when he holds Leo’s hips steady with both hands and just takes Leo down as far as he can. He’s so out of it by the time he finally comes that it takes him a minute to notice that his fingers are threaded through Cristiano’s hair.

“Sorry,” he says, and he moves his hands.

“Don’t be,” Cristiano tells him, and then Leo watches as he moves from where he was and straddles Leo’s waist.

He’s hard still, of course he is, because Leo hasn’t touched him yet. So Leo reaches out a hand and Cristiano just swats it away.

“Don’t,” he says.

Leo watches as Cristiano jerks himself off, notes how and when Cristiano turns his wrist. Cristiano obviously wants to do it himself, but he never said Leo couldn’t touch him, and so Leo runs his hands up Cristiano’s legs, from knee to hip, and then spreads his fingers out along Cristiano’s sides. He lets his fingertips trail in the dips of Cristiano’s muscles and Cristiano groans, high and cut off at the end, as he comes all over Leo’s chest.

When his breathing calms down, Cristiano reaches out to Leo and traces _RM_ with one fingertip on Leo’s chest, the white of his come giving way to the flushed pink of Leo’s skin, and Leo is suddenly incredibly angry.

“Can’t beat me on the pitch so you think you have to come on my chest to make up for it?” he asks, and Cristiano looks taken aback for a minute, like he didn’t even realize what he was doing.

“No,” he says, and wipes the _RM_ away, smearing his come all over Leo’s skin. “I’m not even mad anymore, just disappointed.”

“Oh.”

“I just wanted feel good,” Cristiano says.

Leo doesn’t say anything in response.

They stay there like that for a few minutes, Leo flat on his back with Cristiano straddling him, and then they get up and get cleaned and put their clothes back on. Leo doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to look at Cristiano the same way again, not now that he knows how Cristiano looks under all those layers, not now that he knows the face Cristiano makes when he comes.

He walks Cristiano to the door when he’s ready to leave, and he stands there watching as Cristiano walks to his car.

“See you in April,” Leo shouts, although realistically they’ll each other before then because they run in the same circle, go to the same benefits.

“ _Hala Madrid,_ ” Cristiano says, and then he’s gone.

Leo doesn’t feel like changing the sheets, so he sleeps on the couch.

 

 

He doesn’t think about Cristiano for a long time. At first, Leo’s just too busy with Osasuna and Real Sociedad and Espanyol, but then he gets caught up in spending his free time playing ProEvo with Maxwell and Jeffrén and browsing cribs online with Andrés and flying to England for a weekend with Gerard, and before he realizes it, the new year has come and gone.

His phone rings, though, sometime in mid-January, and his screen reads, _CR7 Calling…_ It takes Leo longer than it should to realize that means it’s Cristiano, although in his defense, Leo didn’t realize he even _had_ Cristiano’s number.

“Hi,” Cristiano says when he picks up. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing?” Leo says, although it sounds like a question. He’s really not doing much, just eating a bowl of _Zucaritas_ that he brought back from Argentina and looking out the window.

“Have you read _Marca_ yet?” Cristiano asks, and in the background, Leo can hear the honk of a car horn.

“No,” Leo says as he slurps a spoonful of cereal. He’s pretty sure the sound effects that Cristiano’s getting from that are disgusting. “I don’t even get _Marca_.”

“Oh. I guess I just—fuck, hold on, I missed my turn,” Cristiano says. Then a beat later, “I just assumed you would get it.”

“No,” Leo says again. “I don’t really care about that sort of thing.”

“Of course _you_ wouldn’t,” Cristiano says, although Leo doesn’t really understand what he means by it.

“Well, come on, what did it say?” Leo asks, and his bowl clangs loudly when he drops it in the sink. He wedges the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he scratches his stomach lightly and wanders around looking for his shoes. No practice today, but they do have a team meeting.

“Talk about how I’m not worth the money, not as good as advertised, that kind of stuff. The usual,” Cristiano says. “More tapping-up, more sex scandals.” And then he laughs dryly and adds, “If only they knew.”

“You’re tapping-up?” Leo asks, and he’s caught off guard by that. “You’re such an idiot, I can’t even believe you’d—that’ll look so bad if you’re caught, Cristiano. Don’t give them more shit to say.”

Cristiano laughs for real this time and says, “I wasn’t referring to tapping-up.”

“Oh,” Leo says. He doesn’t ask about the sex scandals because it’s really none of his business.

“Yeah,” Cristiano says. “But that’s okay. I’m used to it.”

There’s something in his voice, though, that tells Leo that while maybe Cristiano’s come to expect those sorts of headlines, they still bother him. Leo can’t blame him.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Practice,” Cristiano tells him. “Wanted to get there nice and early.”

“I get that,” Leo says, and he slides his feet into the sneakers he found under the coffee table. “But hey, Cristiano? You are worth it. The money, I mean. You’re the best there is.” And Leo means it seriously, too. There are plenty of good players out there, but Cristiano is the only one that solidly and consistently meets Leo stride for stride on the pitch. He’s glad they’re both in La Liga, facing off.

Cristiano doesn’t say anything for a minute, and then he says, “Finally able to admit that to yourself, huh? How’s that feel?”

Leo laughs, says, “I meant _besides_ me.” It feels good to be able to joke about how good he is; he doesn’t get to do that with anyone else, always so worried that it’ll come across like he’s bragging, and that’s the last thing Leo wants.

“Yeah, yeah,” Cristiano says, and then they change the topic. But when Cristiano says he has to go, right before he hangs up, he says, “But hey, listen— thanks.”

And Leo says, “Any time.”

 

 

They don’t talk much, even after that, just a few phone calls here and there, like when Pipita did something embarrassing that Cristiano thought Leo should know about, or when Leo sees Cristiano’s newest Armani ad and wants to make fun of him for it. But besides that, it’s not like they’re on any sort of schedule. So it comes as a surprise to Leo when he lands in Madrid late one night for a meeting with UNICEF the next morning and the first person he thinks to call is Cristiano. Leo knows a lot of people in Madrid; has a lot of good friends in Madrid. He calls Cristiano anyways.

“What?” Cristiano says when he picks up the phone. There’s a lot of noise in the background, music and people talking.

“I can call back later,” Leo says.

“Leo, is that—hold on,” Cristiano says. Then he says something to someone that he’s with, and Leo can hear him walking away until he must be outside, because suddenly it’s quiet and Leo can hear Cristiano perfectly when he says, “Leo? Still there?”

“Yeah, I was actually just calling because I’m in Madrid for the night,” Leo says. “But you’re busy, that’s cool. I’ll see you some other time.”

“No, no,” Cristiano says. “It’s not a big deal; I’m just at a friend’s. Where are you?”

“Right now?” Leo asks. “I’m in a cab. The driver likes Atleti, so we’re bonding over our hate for _Los Merengues_.”

“Come over,” Cristiano says. It’s not a question.

“Okay.”

 

 

Cristiano’s house is just like him—big, over the top, excessive. But it’s nice, too, Leo thinks. There are things about it that he loves, like the pool out back and the big couch in front of Cristiano’s main tv.

Once Cristiano’s done showing him around, he pushes Leo up against the wall of the game room, hard, and nips at Leo’s lips. It catches Leo off guard, even though he pulls Cristiano closer. Everything’s different from before, from when it was soft and tentative. It’s all hard now, hard and rough. Leo doesn’t mind

“This okay?” Cristiano asks.

Leo doesn’t answer, just slides his hand up Cristiano’s shirt until Cristiano grabs his wrists and pins them against the wall. They kiss for a long time like that, pressed chest to chest as they grind against each other, until Leo’s so hard he’s having trouble thinking.

He needs to touch Cristiano, he knows that much, and so he rips a hand free from Cristiano’s and uses it to start opening Cristiano’s belt buckle. Cristiano stops him, tries to pin his hand against the wall again, and Leo yanks his hand back.

“Stop it,” he says, because he’s getting annoyed, but Cristiano just smiles and looks down at him as if he were a child who didn’t understand the rules to a game.

“Leo,” he says, and this time, when he grabs Leo’s wrists, the grip is tighter and Leo has to throw his entire body against Cristiano’s to get free. They end up tumbling to the ground, kissing each other hard and biting each other’s shoulders and fighting for the upper hand.

“Fucking stop fighting and just let me fuck you,” Cristiano says when he has Leo pinned, and Leo really, really likes that idea.

“Just because you can’t beat me,” he says instead, trailing off at the end in challenge. He flips them so he’s on top, his fingertips biting hard into Cristiano’s biceps, hard enough to bruise.

Cristiano reaches up and pinches Leo’s nipple.

“Ow, fuck!” Leo says, and Cristiano uses his distraction to flip them again.

“Leo,” Cristiano scolds when he has Leo’s face pushed into the carpet. “Cursing like the adults do, _tsk, tsk_.”

It’s a nice carpet, Leo’s got to say, but it rubs hard against his cheek and the angle makes Leo’s neck hurt. And he doesn’t know what’s going on, but he can feel Cristiano loop an arm under his waist to drag his hips up, and Leo fights it even though he knows he’ll probably like the end result.

Cristiano pushes his hand harder against the back of Leo’s neck.

“Fucking _stop_ it,” he says, and Leo stills. And then Cristiano’s jerking him off with fingers that are too tight if Leo’s going to last long and a rhythm that’s unpredictable and keeping him on edge.

“Cristiano,” Leo says, although his voice breaks halfway through and he hates that.

“Tell me what you want,” Cristiano says, and there’s laughter in his voice, or maybe pride, Leo can’t really tell.

“Faster,” Leo says, even though that’s not really what he wants. He doesn’t _know what_ he wants.

“Yeah?” Cristiano asks. He slows his hand down to the point where it’s just barely moving.

“Come on, come on just—”

Cristiano says. “Just what, Leo?”

And there’s something in the way that Cristiano says his name because then Leo is coming and making all sorts of embarrassing noises and Cristiano is laughing, his face against the middle of Leo’s back, and his breath is warm on Leo’s skin.

“Come on, shower,” Cristiano says.

“Will you let me touch you this time?” Leo asks, but what he really means is that he’d really, really like to get Cristiano off.

“Yes,” Cristiano says. “In the shower. Come on.”

The water is hot, but the tile is cold against his skin when he gets on his knees.

 

 

Leo wakes up the next morning and Cristiano is still sleeping. He tries to find something on tv downstairs but there’s nothing good on and nothing has been recorded except for a bunch of Barcelona matches. Leo doesn’t know what to make of that, so he watches the news and doesn’t bring it up when Cristiano stumbles downstairs with bed head.

Leo leaves later that day, goes to his meeting and then to the airport. When he lands, he has two missed calls and a voice message, all from Cristiano.

“You forgot your socks here,” Cristiano says. “I’ll see you later.”

And that’s it.

 

 

Except that’s not it.

They have phone sex the next night, or at least they try to. Cristiano comes soon and Leo takes a little longer, completely humiliated by the things that are coming out of his mouth.

“This works better in person,” Leo says.

Cristiano jokes, “I have Skype,” or maybe it’s not a joke at all.

Skype sex is a lot more successful; Leo likes seeing Cristiano’s face when he bites his lip.

 

 

It’s nice. It becomes routine to talk to Cristiano, and a lot of the time Leo thinks maybe Cristiano’s the only one who really gets it. It’s a strange friendship, Leo thinks, because it doesn’t really rest on much else besides a mutual love for football and fucking.

He’s driving home from a particularly hard practice one day and he’s in a terrible mood. Everything was and is going wrong—he got caught in traffic, showed up for practice late, missed a few easy shots during scrimmage, almost slipped and cracked his head open on the tile in the showers, and now he’s hitting every light on the way home. He doesn’t know what to do, so he calls Cristiano.

And right away, he knows something is wrong, which is strange because all Leo said was “Hi,” and then breathed for a minute.

“What’s wrong?” Cristiano asks, and Leo tells him everything, just goes off in a way that he rarely lets himself. He tells him about the traffic and about practice and about how Pep says he’s working too hard when Leo knows he’s not working hard enough and about how he misses Argentina, really misses it, the people and the food and the way the air feels on his skin.

“And I’m just really tired,” Leo says, and maybe it all boils down to that.

Noise from the traffic filters in through one of Leo’s open windows and Cristiano says, “Are you driving?”

“Yes,” Leo says, and Cristiano tells him to be careful. “I know,” Leo snaps.

“Okay,” Cristiano says. “Do you want to tell me what else is wrong?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” Leo says, and then, because he’s already embarrassed himself and so it doesn’t even matter anymore, he asks, “Why me?”

“Why you what?” Cristiano asks. Leo knows he knows what he means.

“Why did you come to my house?”

“At first,” Cristiano says, and the words come out slowly, “I was just mad at you and I wanted to—I don’t know.”

“You know,” Leo says.

“I wanted to do something that I could beat you at,” Cristiano says.

Leo turns his car down his street and says, “How does that even make sense?”

“Does it matter?”

“No,” Leo says. “And then?”

“And then I showed up and I didn’t hate you,” Cristiano says. Leo turns down his driveway and throws his car into park.

“Okay,” he says, and he rests his forehead on the steering wheel.

 

 

“You’re big on Barcelona, right?” Cristiano asks. Leo’s lying in bed, a book abandoned at his side, and if he closes his eyes, it’s almost like Cristiano’s right there next to him.

“I live it and breathe it,” Leo says, and that’s nothing if not the truth.

“So isn’t this treachery or something, fraternizing with the enemy?” he asks.

“They didn’t cover this in the handbook, actually,” Leo says.

“Lucky me.”

Leo can hear the smirk on Cristiano’s lips.

 

 

David knows about them. Or maybe he doesn’t, maybe he thinks they’re just friends, Leo doesn’t know, but David knows something.

Leo’s sitting in the locker room on one of the benches taking off his socks when he gets a text. It’s from Cristiano and it says, _Did footwork today. You might as well just tell your back line to just quit trying._

Leo smiles and is halfway through texting back something about the strength of the Barcelona defense when David asks, “Who’re you texting?” Leo jumps about six feet in the air, startled.

“No one,” he says, and David shakes his head.

“I don’t like it,” David says, and Leo knows he really means, _I don’t like him._

“You don’t have to like him,” Leo says. “That’s okay.”

“I don’t trust him,” David says. “Look at the shit he pulls on the pitch, right? I just don’t want you to—”

“David,” Leo says. “We’re not—I mean. I don’t know what you think this is, but it’s not.”

“Oh,” David says, and he looks incredibly relieved. A smile breaks out on his face, giving him laugh lines that Leo likes to see on the people he cares about. “Good.”

“Yeah,” Leo says. “Good.”

 

 

Cristiano calls that night, and Leo can tell he’s in a good mood by how fast he’s speaking, by how he trips up on his words and laughs at his own stories.

“I’m not even kidding you,” Cristiano says. “He missed it _three times_.”

“Well, great,” Leo says. “Now that Pipita’s forgotten how to kick a football, Real Madrid’s got no other formidable strikers for Barcelona to worry about.”

“There’s me,” Cristiano points out.

“Yes, and?”

Cristiano hangs up, but it's mostly just to prove a point and he calls right back.

“Are you going to act like a mature adult now?” he asks.

Leo says, “I always act like a mature adult.”

“Not as often as you like to think,” Cristiano laughs, but it also sounds kind of serious to Leo.

“Right,” he says. “ _You’re_ the one who called to make fun of how Pipita missed the ball and kicked nothing but air.”

“It was _three times_ ,” Cristiano says. “It’s his job.” Then there’s a noise in the background, a doorbell or something, and he’s saying, “Is it really already nine o’clock? Shit, sorry, I have to go.”

“Okay,” Leo says, and a few minutes later he calls Bojan because he’s bored.

 

 

And then all of a sudden, it’s like he blinks and so much time has passed.

Pep says, “This is it, the second leg of El Clásico.”

Pep says, “We broke them last time, now let’s do it again.”

Pep says, “ _Força Barça,_ ” and Leo is ready.

On the pitch, Cristiano asks, “Can you handle it?” and Leo shoots back, “Can _you_?”

If the last match between them was nothing but scoring, this match is anything but, scoreless almost the entire time. There are tons of yellows being handed out and Leo tries again and again and again to score, but Iker is good at what he does and Leo cannot guide the ball into the net until the eighty-seventh minute. There’s a shot by David, blocked but bobbled, and everyone’s fighting to try to get to the ball and somehow it ends up at Leo’s feet and he doesn’t even have time to orient himself, just throws his foot out and somehow it’s good, it’s goal, and he’s going crazy, running down the pitch and someone—David—grabs onto the back of his jersey and pulls him down and everyone’s piling on top of him and _El Cant Del Barça_ is all around him and it’s great, he’s on top of the world and he can’t—

“Good game,” Cristiano says when they trade jerseys. He walks away and doesn’t look back. Leo feels guilty for a second before the feeling is replaced by anger. He’s pissed at Cristiano for ruining the one thing Leo loves.

“Come on,” David says, and he tugs on Leo’s shirt, pulls him towards the rest of the squad, and as he slings his arm around Leo’s shoulder, he leans in close and says, “Be happy.”

“I am,” Leo says, and he smiles, but something’s missing. Gerard runs up behind him, reaches around to smush Leo’s cheeks with his hands.

“Little Lionel,” he says, and Leo wriggles out of his grasp. “You little fucking genius, where would I be without you?”

“Probably in prison,” Leo says, and Keita comes up, throwing an arm over Leo’s shoulders, dragging him away.

“That was one time!” Gerard says, and the look on his face is enough to make Leo laugh.

 

 

Leo goes home and he tells himself that he’s only up because he can’t sleep and not because he’s waiting for Cristiano to come over. That’s good because Cristiano doesn’t come, anyways.

 

 

The rest of the season goes by pretty fast. They’re training hard and when Leo’s not practicing, he’s thinking about it, and when he’s thinking about it, he’s not doing much else. He calls Cristiano once or twice, but it rolls over to voicemail. It’s okay, it’s fine. Leo’s busy; he doesn’t have much time to think about it, anyways.

Except he does. He has too much time, nothing _but_ time, and he tries to keep busy and that works for the most part, but then every night he goes home and it’s quiet and all Leo can think about is how Cristiano’s feet looked propped up on his coffee table and the way Cristiano’s muscles looked in the dim light of his bedroom and how Cristiano’s lips looked, wrapped around his cock.

Leo thinks about him every night in bed and every morning in the shower, until he goes out and becomes too busy to think about anything other than what he’s doing.

 

 

Angel calls him a few weeks later to spread rumors about Kun. Leo likes Angel because he smiles easily and means each one, and Leo likes to think that he’s a little like that, too. It was nice, having him on the squad in South Africa.

“Word on the street is that he’s leaving Atlético,” Angel says. “Coming to Real Madrid.”

“ _What_?” Leo says, because he hadn’t heard that.

“Yeah,” he says. “They’re turning Real into Little _Albiceleste_ , haven’t you heard? When are you transferring over?”

Leo laughs, gets that it’s a joke, says, “Never. Not until the day I die, and then not afterwards, either.”

“It was worth a shot,” Angel says. “You know what else is worth a shot?”

“What?”

“Calling Cris,” he says, and Leo thinks that’s not worth it, not anymore. He’s not even on _Cris_ basis with Cristiano; there’s nothing there to salvage, and there probably never was.

“Hey, look,” Leo says, and then Angel cuts him off.

“He talked about you all the time,” he says. “And now all he does is mope. You know?”

“I don’t,” Leo says.

Angel sighs and says, “I don’t think he does, either.”

 

 

It’s a day off but Leo goes on a run anyways, a short one just around his neighborhood. Nobody usually bothers him, but sometimes he gets stopped for autographs or photos. He doesn’t really mind.

When he gets home, he takes a shower and then does the dishes, and he vacuums the living room floor because Bojan had knocked over a bowl of popcorn the other day and Leo had only halfheartedly cleaned it. He reads old issues of _Don Balón_ and _Sport_ magazine, renews his subscription to both, and then he does the laundry. He calls Cristiano again and gets his voicemail again.

“You know,” he says, “it’s hard to want to be your friend when you don’t exactly give me many reasons to like you.”

He hangs up and goes to sleep.

 

 

Cristiano doesn’t call back the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. Leo’s done.

 

 

He goes out with Bojan sometime later to see a basketball game. Bojan spends the entire drive over skirting around the question of what’s gotten Leo so down, and Leo’s glad he doesn’t outright ask because he doesn’t like to outright lie.

Courtside, they watch Barcelona get beat by Caja Laboral, 94-87, and Bojan jumps halfway out of his seat at each missed basket.

“Come on—Pass!—You were wide open!—What are you—What the fuck was that?—Are you kidding—Foul!—Come on!—Seriously?”

Leo thinks it’s all very funny.

And then on the drive back, Bojan looks at Leo out of the corner of his eye and says, “Want to hear a joke?”

Leo says, “Not if it’s anything like your usual jokes,” and Bojan laughs.

“No, no, this one’s better,” he says.

“Okay, then.”

“So,” Bojan says, “Cristiano Ronaldo goes to the doctor,” and Leo groans. He doesn’t know how Bojan knows, but it’s kind of embarrassing to Leo. He knows now that he should have known better then, and having everyone else know it too isn’t helping any. “Shut up,” Bojan says. “I’m not done.”

“Okay, fine,” Leo says. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Bojan says. “So Cristiano Ronaldo goes to the doctor, right? And he says, _Doctor, I have a problem—every time I look in the mirror, I become sexually aroused._ And the doctor says, _Well, I’m not surprised; you’re a cunt._ ”

Leo laughs, a loud bark of laughter, and then he says, “That joke is terrible.”

“I know,” Bojan agrees. And then, “Sorry he was such a shitty friend.”

“That’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Bojan says, and Leo supposes he’s right.

 

 

His phone rings in the middle of the night, waking him up from a dream that he can’t quite remember the details of but that he remembers the feeling of.

“What?” he says when he picks up. He’s still half asleep and his eyes are barely open.

“I was wondering,” someone says, and of course it’s Gerard. No one else is ridiculous enough to call this late. “What are you doing like, the end of July, beginning of August? Because Cesc and I want to go to the beach and he said that he thought there were some pretty good ones in Argentina, and so we’re going to come visit you. I’m online looking at plane tickets right now.”

“Um,” Leo says, and then he takes a minute to think. “It’ll be winter in Argentina.”

“Oh,” Gerard says. “Well, that’s gross. Come with us to Ibiza, then. That was our backup.”

“Geri,” Leo says. “I’m going to hang up now.”

“So you’re in? _Great_ ,” Gerard says, and Leo hangs up.

Ibiza sounds nice.

 

 

In the morning, he wakes up with his cell phone wedged painfully underneath his back. He’s still tired but he doesn’t go back to sleep because he knows that if he does, he’ll spend the entire day in bed and end up hating himself for it. So he drags himself out from underneath the covers and through a shower. After that, he feels more awake and he grabs a banana for breakfast on his way out the door.

The drive to Gerard’s is short—ten minutes, maybe—and Leo uses the spare key he was given to let himself inside. Gerard’s still asleep and all the lights are off, but Leo turns on a few and starts up the Xbox, throwing on Halo: Reach. He plays one of the saved games for a while—something that Gerard’ll probably get mad about later—and kills a ton of Convent forces with an assault rifle.

Leo thinks it really says something about Gerard’s character that he comes downstairs barely awake and in only his boxers and the first thing he asks is, “Why no ProEvo?”

“Got tired of it,” Leo says, although he’ll probably play it again in the next couple of days.

“Okay,” Gerard says, and he scratches the back of his head. “Want some orange juice?”

“No thanks,” Leo says, but he’s distracted and doesn’t even really know what he was saying no to. Emile’s just been killed and Leo has to take his place at the guns.

A few minutes later, Gerard’s flopping on the couch next to Leo, nudging his knee and says, “Multiplayer, come on.”

Leo says, “At the next checkpoint,” and Gerard makes an insulted noise.

“It’s my house,” he says, but Leo knows he’s only just saying that to be annoying.

“You called me at three a.m. to talk about going to the beach,” Leo says. “At least give me this.”

“Oh, right,” Gerard says. “I bought tickets for next month. You have to come because if you don’t, Cesc wants to invite Pepe.”

“What, you don’t like Pepe anymore?” Leo asks. He saves his game and exits to multiplayer.

“No, I do,” Gerard says as he picks up his controller. “But he’s like forty and married with children. I want to get drunk and get laid, not be a respectable member of society.”

“What are you talking about? He’s only twenty-eight.”

“And married with children,” Gerard says. “Just say you’ll go.”

“I’ll go,” Leo says, and then he kills Gerard on screen.

 

 

It’s nice; they spend the whole day doing nothing, just playing video games and watching tv, and Gerard only gets dressed when they get hungry and go out for lunch, and on the way back, they pick up Bojan and he brings some of his mom’s flan, which is delicious and they devour in about a minute and a half before putting on _The Godfather_.

Later, Leo gets up to head home, and he’s in a good mood. When he stretches, Gerard slaps his stomach hard with his open palm and then uses Bojan as a human shield until he’s absolutely sure Leo’s not gunning for revenge.

“Go,” Bojan deadpans from the headlock Gerard’s got him in. “Save yourself.”

Leo shrugs, says, “Okay,” and walks out the door.

“Hey, motherfucker!” Bojan yells after him. His arms are dangling loosely over his head and he looks ridiculous, completely dwarfed by Gerard’s height. “Great to know you care!”

Gerard’s threaded his fingers through Bojan’s hair and is tugging it to make Bojan’s head move. Leo laughs and waves and climbs into his car. He’s at the end of the driveway when he looks in his rearview mirror and sees Gerard finally drop Bojan’s arms. Bojan punches him hard in the shoulder and then darts back inside, and Leo drives away.

 

 

When he gets back to his house, Cristiano is on sitting on his doorstep. Leo doesn’t know what to think, so he takes his time getting out of the car. When he does, Cristiano stands up, puts his hands in his pockets, and just stands there, unmoving, silent.

“What are you doing here, Cristiano?” Leo asks. He’s tired of this, tired of Cristiano, but he unlocks his door and lets them both inside, anyways.

“I’m not a— you knew going into this that I— fuck you,” Cristiano says, switching between things to say, and Leo feels his eyebrows shoot up. “You’re so fucking good at football and I hate you for it because you’re the only person that’s stopping me from being the best and you don’t even _care_.”

“What?” Leo asks. “I’m supposed to feel bad for being good at my job?”

“ _No_ ,” Cristiano says. “But you don’t care that you’re the _best_.”

A part of Leo wants to make a joke about Cristiano finally realizing that, but instead he says, “Of course I care.”

“You don’t show it.”

“So what?” Leo asks. “Suddenly I’m ungrateful because I’ve got humility?”

“ _No_ ,” Cristiano stresses, and he runs a hand through his hair. “You don’t—”

“I _care_ ,” Leo says. “The better I am, the more football I play.”

“Bullshit,” Cristiano says. “You could be halfway decent and still start every game.”

“Not for Barcelona.”

“ _Fuck_ Barcelona,” Cristiano says. “You knew going into this that I was a sore loser. You knew that.”

“I didn’t think you’d stop talking to me, though,” Leo says, and that’s true. But he’s worn down and tired and he doesn’t want to fight anymore, so he just says, “Look, someone had to score at El Clásico, right? Could have just as easily been you.”

Cristiano throws his arms up in the air and shouts, “This isn’t about El fucking Clásico!”

“Then what is it about?” Leo asks.

“ _You_ ,” Cristiano says, and Leo can see him visibly deflate. “I’m not used to being jealous, and I’m not used to wanting people like this and not have them throwing themselves at me, and I’m not—I don’t know what I’m _doing_.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing either,” Leo says. “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing,” Cristiano says. “Everything. Your ball-handling skills.”

“Which ones?” Leo asks, and it’s a stupid joke but he says it with a small smile and afterwards, Cristiano steps forward and kisses him quick.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Okay.”

Cristiano kisses him again and it reminds Leo so much of the first time, of how carefully he did everything. Leo slides his hands under Cristiano’s shirt and just places his palms on Cristiano’s stomach, and it’s been a long time, but Leo hasn’t forgotten how Cristiano’s skin feels.

“I’m sorry,” Cristiano says again.

“ _Okay_ ,” Leo says.

They stumble to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothing on the way, hands on each other’s bodies and in each other’s hair. They don’t have sex, not right then, but they do lay real close to each other on the bed and Cristiano jerks them both off at the same time, nice and slow, as they kiss. When Leo comes first, it’s with a quiet groan and a hand on Cristiano’s shoulder.

Afterwards, Leo reaches down between them and finishes Cristiano off with his fingers, and he’s never heard anything sexier than the way Cristiano says his name right at that moment, “ _Leo_ ,” cut off and breathy at the end.

They lay there together for a while, and just before Leo gets the energy to get up and grab a wet cloth to clean them up with, Cristiano says, “I’m going to mess up again.”

Leo says, “I know.” Cristiano, for all his beauty, is far from perfect.

“Be patient with me?” he asks, and it’s a _question_. That’s so unusual for Cristiano, Cristiano who’s all orders and confidence and swagger, and Leo understands that he’s worried Leo won’t be, that Leo will get tired and leave.

“Okay,” he says.

“And don’t hate me when I win the Ballon d’Or next year, or when Real Madrid finally wins the league, or when Portugal beats Argentina 4-0 the next time they face off.”

“Well,” Leo says. “At least your goals are modest ones.” Cristiano laughs.

“Yes,” he says. “I know. My mother raised me to be very humble.”

“Yeah?” Leo asks. “What happened?”

Cristiano flashes him a smile and says, “Look at me. I became beautiful.”

Leo laughs and finally gets out of bed for the wet cloth.

“You’re impossible,” Leo says, and Cristiano says, “Almost.”

Leo likes his odds.


End file.
